


Gambler's Den

by haillenarte



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Cross-cultural, Gambling, M/M, Photographic Memory, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 08:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haillenarte/pseuds/haillenarte
Summary: Written November 1, 2017 — June 5, 2018; set after NIN 50. Jacke is a man of many masks, but Oboro doesn't seem to need one.





	Gambler's Den

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Oboro is introduced to the Lominsan pastimes of drinking and gambling." My thanks to S., for suggesting it; V., for her guidance and support; M., for her real-life eidetic memory; O., for her continuous encouragement; and A., for everything he has ever done.
> 
> Knowledge of the card game "Bullshit," also known as "Cheat," may be required to enjoy this piece.

  
  
  
  
  


At first, Oboro is an outsider.   
  
Then he is a rogue, just like the rest of them.   
  
It just  _happens_ , the same way drunken overnights at the Drowned Wench just  _happen:_ inevitably, and in the absence of responsible individuals. Jacke does his best to discourage it — he tries to convince them all to keep Oboro at arm's length — but despite his warnings, the rogues accept the ninja as the guild's newest colt, and they treat him with appropriately condescending affection. The fact that Oboro handles his stabbers with an ease that implies years of experience is irrelevant. He is a colt by Lominsan standards, which are the only standards that matter.  
  
Deep down, Jacke doesn't know how to feel. It's not that he doesn't  _like_  Oboro — he  _does,_  just not in the way that everyone thinks he should. Jacke's trust hinges on context, not consistency. He trusts Oboro in the same way he trusts the enemy of an enemy: with a weapon, but not with a secret, and never with his life.  
  
Besides, it's a strange thing, having a Doman ninja in their quarters, in their corner of the city. Jacke doesn't think Oboro will murder them all in their sleep, or any such nonsense, but he doesn't believe Oboro's  _story._ He doubts very much that the man has come all this way from the Far East to  _study Eorzean customs._  The ninja is in Limsa Lominsa for something else, Jacke is certain. As for what that something else might be, he can't even begin to guess.  
  
Of course, not all of the guild members share his concerns. V'kebbe snorts when Jacke tries to bring up the idea that Oboro might be lying to them. Underfoot finds  _better_ _shite to deal with,_  in those words exactly, and immediately disappears for the next four bells. And Lonwoerd might entertain Jacke's suspicions — but that doesn't mean much when he's never been one to have an original thought of his own.  
  
Only old man Bochard will listen to Jacke's gripes about the sullen Doman man haunting the halls of their convent, and even then, the guild's wizened veteran doesn't seem entirely convinced. "Look here, Jacke," Bochard says, uncharacteristically flippant, "even if what you say is true, what d'you whiddle one cove could do on his own?"  
  
But that's just  _it_ , Jacke thinks, gritting his teeth to stay silent. He knows all too well what one man can do on his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
Oboro is two weeks into his stay when they first introduce him to Bullshite.  
  
It begins, as always, in comical fashion. Over breakfast, the guild's lone Miqo'te male asks Oboro if he knows what Bullshite is — and the ninja stares at the boy for a long moment, almost as if in fear. "...I believe I do?" Oboro replies cautiously, with the wary doubt of a man who half-expects his peers to produce actual bull shite from behind their backs.  
  
This, of course, confirms that the ninja does  _not_  know what Bullshite is, and that someone will have to teach him. The rogues leap upon the task like a pack of jackals upon a wounded lamb. Most Lominsan children are familiar with the city's traditional card games by the age of five; teaching an adulthow to play is therefore a novel situation, one that nobody knows quite how to resolve. And in the end, the teaching goes poorly — largely because the rogues keep interrupting one another during the recitation of the rules.   
  
"Right now, it goes like this," V'kebbe begins, her ears twitching in eager anticipation. "Ye start with yer standard deck o' cards — sometimes two decks, if there are enough players in the game to warrant it — an' ye pass the deck out evenly, like this."  
  
"Ye've a funny idea o' what  _even_  means, V'kebbe," Perimu Haurimu chimes in, scowling. "Last time ye dealt the hands, I had fifteen cards instead o' thirteen..."  
  
"Oh, shut yer gob, Underfoot! Where was I? Right, so everyone has, or  _should_  have, the same amount of cards. So the objective o' the game is to be the first person with  _no_  cards —"  
  
"Which ain't as easy with fifteen cards when the dealer's got thirteen —"  
  
"Ye want a millin', Underfoot? Is that it?"  
  
In the corner of the room, Jacke quietly nurses a mild hangover, keeping his regrets to himself. Beneath his bandana, under the guise of a nap, he watches Oboro through a haze of painful sobriety. As the guildmaster, he knows what his rogues think: both V'kebbe and Underfoot believe that Oboro is an extremely talented fool. The ninja is clearly not unintelligent, but something in his general demeanor marks him as a gullible man. Despite his sober solemnity, Oboro is easy to con and easy to tease. He appears intellectually harmless, charmingly stupid.  
  
Jacke knows better than to take that for a fact. Even through the chaos of V'kebbe and Underfoot's argument, Oboro nods along, following the Stray's convoluted train of thought with ease. The man soaks information up like seawater; he can't be as slow as he seems.  
  
"Now, each time ye put a card down — sod it,  _ye'll_  be the dealer this time, Underfoot, will that stop yer wailin'? — each time ye lay yer cards on the board, face down, o' course, ye tell us the number an' the name o' the cards ye put down," V'kebbe continues gaily. "So, for instance, these two cards right here? Two fours."  
  
Oboro's expression does not change as his dark eyes flick towards the grain of the table. "Why lay the cards face down?"  
  
"I'm gettin' to that, lad, hold yer daddles. The reason we call the game Bullshite is ye can call bullshite on whosoever ye think is lyin'. Let's say Underfoot here puts down three cards all at once, an' he calls 'em three queens. Well, if ye've got two queens in yer hand, an' we ain't fussin' with two decks, he must be bluffin' — an' ye know what we do with coves what don't tell the truth. So, if ye call bullshite on a cove who  _is_  lyin', then he gets the current pile o' cards thrown into his fambles, movin' him away from victory. But if ye call bullshite on a cove an' he's  _not_  lyin', then the cards get thrown into  _yer_  hand instead."  
  
The Doman man mulls this over for a moment, then comes up with another question. "Is there a less vulgar way of calling someone's bluff?" he asks, completely earnest.  
  
On and on they go, back and forth, until at last Oboro seems primed to play his first game of Bullshite. The game is best played with four players, though the rogues are known to play with two or three if the last leg of a table can't be found —but this time they have Oboro, V'kebbe, Underfoot, and Bochard to form a full group. Underfoot deals the cards with professional flair; V'kebbe, for the sake of propriety, takes an even count of the cards. Bochard smiles. Oboro says nothing, but he stares at his hand with unnecessary intensity.  
  
There's just one catch — one thing that V'kebbe hasn't mentioned yet.  
  
In the Rogues' Guild, nobody wins at Bullshite without cheating.  
  
They do this with all the colts, as a form of gentle hazing — it is trial by water and baptism by fire. They never tell the newer rogues that there is a second component to the game. The rogues cheat at Bullshite the way they're supposed to — that is, they bluff about the ranks of their cards — but they  _also_ cheat in the sense that they do whatever it takes to make cards disappear from their hands.  
  
The idea is not to play honestly, but for every rogue to show off some natty trick — to demonstrate some mastery of dexterity and deception. Bochard has a knack for sliding extra cards into his voluminous pantaloons. V'kebbe cannot be trusted to ever deal the hands; before the game, she will swap the deck with one that has been ordered to give her the advantage. And Underfoot, as it turns out, is an epithet not based on the Lalafell's height, but rather for his propensity to hide cards in his sandals.   
  
When putting cards down on the table is not the only way to lessen the number of cards in one's hand, the game of Bullshite becomes an exercise in lying, catching lies, and the art of sleight-of-hand.  
  
As with all things, the rogues have unspoken rules about how to cheat. Cards slipped into one's sleeve or sandal or pocket are removed indefinitely, and not to be re-entered into the game. Getting caught at sleight-of-hand invokes the same punishment as getting caught on a bluff: the active pile goes into one's hand. And rogues are not to lie about the number of cards they've put down — only the rank.  
  
It isn't really cheating, after all, if everyone agrees on how to cheat.  
  
Oboro doesn't seem to realize that everyone else is playing a different game until he is 400 gil in debt.  
  
His entry wagers have been modest — the rogues never play for more than 100 gil per person, and members are not really  _beholden_ to their debts — but even so, it takes Oboro a fairly long time to catch on. "I believe I understand now," the Doman says, staring placidly at his fourth consecutive loss. He is impossibly well-restrained for a man who should, by all rights, be livid. "You are all very good at this game indeed."  
  
Ol' Lonny Left-patch is the first to capitalize upon Oboro's misfortune. "Rackin' up a debt to us, pretty boy," the burly Roegadyn chuckles, planting his palm upon the table. Lonwoerd is the guild's watchman precisely because he has a knack for using his girth and size to unsettle others, and he leans distressingly close to the ninja, carefully nudging his considerable weight onto the Hyuran man's shoulder. "Might be as we'll make ye  _work_ it off. Whid on the street says ye make a convincing milkmaid, an' I reckon that mouth o' yours ain't sewn as shut as it looks..."  
  
The exchange is deeply uncomfortable to watch. Oboro seems too rigid in his seat; his expression is strangely flat. And Jacke knows that Lonwoerd is joking — he knows Lonny well enough to know that the Roegadyn has no  _interest_ in dressing Oboro in skirts and frills — but still, he cannot help himself from feeling incensed.  
  
Anger boils over. Jacke strides over towards their game, and he slams a dagger in the table before he can stop himself.  
  
"Knock it off," the guildmaster growls. With anyone else, he might tolerate the talk — but Oboro is a different matter. "We don't play like that 'round here."  
  
At first, Lonwoerd seems as though he means to argue, but then he catches himself. The glint of guilt in his eyes suggests that he has remembered the third rule of the thieves' code, and a few other things about Jacke besides. Muttering under his breath, he draws back into his seat — and Jacke, for his part, draws his blade back into the sash at his waist.  
  
Oboro is the first to break the silence. Delicately, his fingers sweep stray splinters from the table onto the floor. "Thank you, Jacke, but I took no offense," the Doman announces, in a slightly lilting voice. But his jovial tone doesn't quite match the careful lifelessness of his downturned eyes, and Jacke suspects that the man could cut his way through the entire guild if his hand were forced.  
  
Later in the evening, Jacke steps out onto the docks for a breath of bracing ocean air. The evening breeze feels good against his skin; the scent of salt and seawater lingers in his throat. He inhales deeply. He closes his eyes.   
  
When he opens them, and turns round to re-enter the guild hall, he finds Oboro leaning against the doors, staring coolly in his direction.  
  
They are alone together on the pier.  
  
"I express to you my gratitude for your earlier actions, Captain Jacke," Oboro says, stiffly. He bows in his strange Eastern way.  
  
It's a strangely long-winded way to say  _thanks_. Vaguely, Jacke wonders if he is being made fun of. "Ye don't need to thank me," the rogue replies, equally stiff. "Lonny ought to know better about breakin' the code," he adds — never mind the fact that the Roegadyn was only joking about breaking the code.  
  
With most others in the guild, Jacke knows, Oboro typically says his piece and then leaves. This time, the Doman lingers, tilting his head to one side as he regards Jacke with peculiar interest. "This code — it is important to you," Oboro observes. "You are an honorable man."  
  
"Aye, an' yer a thrice-damned fool," Jacke snorts, rolling his eyes at the ninja's strange attempt at flattery. He steps closer to the doors, brushing past the smaller man; his shoulder collides with Oboro's as he pushes his way through. "Whid of advice, lad, so long as ye plan to be in Limsa Lominsa," Jacke says. "Take nothin' at face value. Don't trust a damn thing unless ye know it's good to be trusted."  
  
  
  
  
  
In the days to follow, Oboro doesn't act as though he has taken Jacke's advice to heart.   
  
The man doesn't change — not outwardly, at any rate. Oboro's features remain as placid and emotionless as ever. In the realm of Bullshite, however, the ninja has become a different person. Where he was once an amateur player, Oboro has transformed into a challenging foe. Now that the Doman knows that the rogues are cheating, he has learned exactly how to catch them in the middle of it.   
  
Oboro's strength, as it turns out, is his preternatural ability to catch others when they cheat. The ninja's keen eyes do not miss even the slightest movement. He catches V'kebbe slipping extra cards into the deck; he catches Underfoot sliding cards into his Lalafellin shoes.   
  
Fortunately, Perimu takes it all in good stride, if good stride means throwing his entire hand into the pile, groaning, before dutifully accepting the stack of eighteen cards as his own. "Damn it all, boy!" the Lalafell swears. "How do ye do that? Ye weren't even lookin me way! What queer Doman secrets are ye keepin' from me, eh?"  
  
"The secrets of the Far East would not be secrets if we were so quick to give them up," Oboro retorts, with a dazzlingly brief quirk of his lips. "Fear not — I shall collect your debts to me at a later date."  
  
Underfoot slides into the back of his seat, grumbling, then notices Jacke watching their game from the other side of the room. He shakes his small head in frustration. "I'll say one thing about them coal-black eyes o' his, Jacke," Perimu complains. "Ye can't see a damn thing in 'em."  
  
The fact that Oboro is capable of maintaining a perfect poker face has not escaped Jacke's notice. The more the guildmaster watches Oboro, the more fascinating the man's mannerisms become. Oboro rarely smiles — indeed, the man barely moves his mouth at all — and his body language is exceptionally restrained. Jacke can't be sure if it's an  _Eastern_ thing or just a quirk of Oboro's specifically, but the man is somehow capable of keeping himself completely still. The effect is curiously artificial. Few Eorzeans can sit completely still — most people fidget at least  _sometimes_ , or else have some kind of periodic twitch — but Oboro keeps himself so inanimate that, from time to time, he resembles a doll.   
  
_With porcelain skin,_  Jacke thinks.  _If ye touched him, he'd crack.  
_  
There are just a few odd quirks to Oboro's playing style. For one thing, the ninja never says  _bullshite_ , and instead prefers the phrase _I doubt it._  For another thing, he himself never seems to cheat: all attempts to call his bluffs have backfired, and all attempts to catch him at sleight-of-hand have been fruitless.  
  
Jacke doesn't know what to make of the man.  
  
All the same, Oboro seems to like Bullshite well enough, compared to the games of his homeland; he agrees to play nearly every time someone asks him for a game. "We have other such games in Doma," he explains one day, at V'kebbe's behest, "but our cards are different. They are printed with flowers, and we call them hanafuda."  
  
When Lonwoerd asks about Triple Triad, however, Oboro's demeanor steels over. "The imperials gave us some good things," he says, after a lengthy pause, but he says nothing more of the Garleans, and nothing more of war.  
  
The strange thing is that Jacke has caught Oboro playing dumb on more than one occasion. Apparently, the Doman ninja has been going around the guild, getting rogues to explain Lominsan customs to him. One evening, Jacke stumbles across Oboro speaking with the Stray about the history of privateering in Limsa Lominsa; the next day, he finds old man Bochard telling the ninja the same exact thing. It's odd, really.  _Bizarre_.  
  
When Jacke confronts Oboro about this behavior, however, the man only blinks back at him, with a doleful glint to his gaze.  
  
"Why, Captain Jacke," Oboro says, innocently, "was it not you who told me to take nothing at face value?"  
  
  
  
  
  
They take dinner as a guild one evening — all rogues together, or more precisely, the rogues and their ninja — but Jacke is well aware that the guild hall is no place to share a meal. The cloisters of the Dutiful Sisters house a haphazard mess of tables and chairs, with tangled ropes lying loose on the floor and daggers stuck in the walls. Training dummies stand studded with stabbers in the corners of the room, and the floorboards lost their varnish long ago.  
  
The rogues do not eat together often, but today is something of a special occasion. By way of thanks over a recent job well done, the Bismarck has sent the Sisters a generous helping of finger sandwiches. Naturally, Oboro was not involved in the mission, and therefore does not receive a sandwich — but V'kebbe, in her infinite generosity, allows Oboro a modest cut of her share.   
  
Having finished his own sandwich long ago, Jacke watches the Lominsan lass and the Doman lad practice the pronunciation of Oboro's name as they eat.  
  
It isn't as though V'kebbe doesn't know Oboro's name, but she has never had cause to say it out loud, and apparently, she wants to get it  _right_. Jacke isn't sure why it matters now, nor whether he wants to know why it matters. "Oboro?" V'kebbe ventures shyly, unusually unsure of herself.  
  
"Obo _ro_ ," the ninja corrects, softening the pronunciation of the last  _r_  into something more closely resembling an  _l_.  
  
The Stray's traitorous Miqo'te tongue cannot soften the  _r_  without rolling it, so after a few more back-and-forth attempts to get it right, she gives up. "What's it mean, like?" she asks, her tail arching with curiosity. "It means somethin', don't it? Ye Easterners always have real pretty names."  
  
"It means —" But Oboro breaks off, and his dark eyes slide away, towards the doors. "It means 'mist,' I believe," he says, after a pause, and Jacke feels strangely certain that the man is lying.  
  
A name is nothing to lie about, so when Oboro finishes his cut of V'kebbe's sandwich, and excuses himself to run errands — a likely story, at this time of night — Jacke follows him out of the guild hall and into the darkmans. Unsurprisingly, the ninja runs no errands. Instead, he walks out towards the Fisherman's Guild. Then he stops, and stares out towards the  _Astalicia_.  
  
Jacke has the distinct sense that the Doman has realized that he is being followed, and so there is no sense in continuing to stalk him from the shadows. He saunters towards the younger man as casually as he can manage. "Oboro," Jacke calls, each consonant and vowel in its proper place. He has heard the ninja say his own name often enough to get it right.  
  
Oboro turns. Moonlight gleams dimly upon his fair skin. The shadows at the corner of his mouth make it look as though he is smiling, but Jacke knows better. "You say it with such ease," the ninja says, with obvious approval. "What is the word you use? Bene?"  
  
Jacke snorts with unbridled disdain. "Ye work on that," he scoffs, dismissively. Then he regards Oboro's dark lashes with renewed interest. There seems no sense in waiting for some other opportunity to speak to him. Jacke forges ahead. "Oboro doesn't really mean 'mist,' does it?" the guildmaster asks.  
  
The ninja does not seem surprised by this line of questioning. "What makes you think that?"  
  
"Ye just had a look about ye like ye was hidin' somethin'," Jacke says, and then shrugs. "An' ye don't seem like a misty-eyed sort to me."  
  
If Oboro is offended that Jacke has been eavesdropping on his conversations, he doesn't show it. For once, his expression betrays something of vulnerability as he lowers his eyes once more towards the water. "It was not my intention to lie," the ninja replies, somewhat defensively. "In the moment, I could not think of a better way to articulate myself. 'Mist' seemed close enough." Before Jacke can get a word in edgewise, however, Oboro deflects the conversation away from himself. "What about you? What does Jacke mean?"  
  
"Jacke means jack," the guildmaster answers, rather aggressively — but at the look of confusion on Oboro's face, he softens. "Nothin'. It means nothin', lad. It's just a name."  
  
Something like understanding seems to flicker over Oboro's lips. "V'kebbe told me your name is not Captain Jacke — it is Jacke Swallow."  
  
"She needs to keep her mouth shut, she does." Jacke's irritation is affectionate; in truth, he has a special fondness for the Stray, and though he tries not to play favorites, he knows that he likes V'kebbe far more than some of the other rogues in the guild. "Aye, me surname's Swallow. An' before ye ask, I don't."  
  
Oboro does not seem to understand the innuendo, or if he does, he feigns misunderstanding. For the first time in all the weeks he has spent at the Rogues' Guild, he smiles as he speaks. "I have a friend — Tsubame. Her name means 'swallow,' too. You would like her. She is rather small and birdlike." He laughs, makes gestures with his hands to indicate size. "Together, you could be a little swallow and a big swallow."  
  
Jacke tries to ignore the sudden and inexplicable tautness in his chest. "She sounds like a rum lass," he replies, though he is not entirely aware of what he is saying. Words seem to tumble out of his mouth.  _This ain't like me,_  he thinks — this is nothing like his image of himself at all. "So what's Oboro mean, if it ain't 'mist'?"  
  
Oboro frowns. "As I said, I did not lie to V'kebbe. It  _is_  mist. It is haze. It is..."   
  
Trailing off, he stares into the foggy night. And for a moment Jacke wonders what he's thinking about — he wonders if the man's name is really so very complicated that he has to ponder it quite so intensely — but then Oboro lifts his hand, and points toward the clouded moon shining faintly through the fog, the light indistinct and blurry, like the edge of a dream.   
  
"That, there," the man says. "Do you see the moon tonight? That is  _oboro_."  
  
Jacke turns his head to look. He sees the moon; he sees the fog. And he knows nothing of Doma — he knows nothing of Doma's culture, of its language or its people or its words — but he understands, to an improbable degree, why someone might need to have a specific word for this sort of night, for this sort of evening. The moonlight struggles through the haze. It feels somehow ominous. It aches with longing.  
  
"It's pretty," Jacke murmurs, on impulse.  
  
Oboro smiles. Again, he lowers his eyes to the water. "I never liked it," Oboro says, and Jacke is considerate enough to stop himself from asking  _why._  
  
  
  
  
  
There are other things that Jacke should be worried about — like bitten baubles, and stolen sorrows, and all manner of other such things — but in the days to follow, the guildmaster finds himself strangely preoccupied with Oboro's appearance. It's an unusual thing to be fixated on, really. Oboro's features are not especially inviting. He has gaunt cheeks, and thin eyebrows, and small, colorless lips. He is the sort of man one might be drawn to for a moment, but not another second longer.   
  
Yet, time and time again, Jacke finds his eyes drawn to the scar that stretches over the left side of Oboro's face. Time and time again, he wonders what sort of blade ruined the immaculate canvas of the man's cheek.  
  
Jacke has little interest in Oboro's dark hair, or his dark eyes. No — instead, the rogue has developed a strange fascination with the man's  _skin_. Oboro's complexion is unusually pale and translucent, fair with cool undertones. It looks smooth and inviting as Lominsan daybreak; it boasts the dusty rose hues of the sky at dawn. Oboro's lips are nearly devoid of pigment, but his haughty cheekbones flush pale pink after even the slightest sip of ale.  _A porcelain doll._    
  
Jacke reminds himself that it is not polite to ask a man the stories of his scars.  
  
By now, Oboro  _has_ to have noticed that Jacke has been watching him — but somehow, when they are inside the guild hall, his eyes never meet the rogue's. The ninja's gaze is always focused on his cards, or the table, or the hands of the men and women with whom he is playing. Like an actor performing a pensive monologue before an audience, Oboro never looks in Jacke's direction, though of course he knows he is on display.  
  
For some reason, V'kebbe seems fed up with her captain's surveillance of her Doman friend. One day — when Jacke is rather too caught up in taking the measure of Oboro's subtleties to notice her approach — she abruptly sneaks up on him, and covers his eyes with her hands. When he jolts, she hisses into his ear: "Navigator's teat, Jacke, how's about I do ye a favor an' ask him to undo some o' the laces on that vest for ye?"  
  
His vision obscured, Jacke quite genuinely does not understand. Gently, he shakes himself free of her embrace. "Why would I want ye to do that, love?"  
  
Plainly displeased by this response, the Stray throws her hands up. "Why indeed?" she groans, stalking off, and Jacke figures it's just that phase of the moon.  
  
It isn't — Jacke swears — the  _exoticism_ that holds his attention. It's nothing like that. Easterners sail into Limsa Lominsa fairly often to celebrate Heavensturn and other such things; Jacke has seen Doman men in port tens if not hundreds of times. Oboro's strange allure has nothing to do with his being  _Doman_.   
  
Yet — when he tries to figure out what his fascination  _really_ stems from, Jacke comes up empty-handed.  
  
What the guildmaster eventually tells himself is that he wants to know how Oboro is winning all of his games. With how often Oboro plays, and how sharp the other rogues' instincts are, it is difficult to explain how the ninja has never been caught in a bluff — and the rules of the game being what they are, it seems impossible to believe that Oboro has never been forced into one.  
  
Jacke's first theory is that Oboro has been making copies of cards. Doman ninjas can make forgeries of nearly anything, if the rumors are to be believed, and it would explain why he has never been caught lying about the ranks of his cards. If Oboro has his own copy of the deck, and he can swap his cards discreetly enough, he will always be able to put an appropriate card on the table. Plus, it isn't an unusual method of cheating — several members of the guild keep additional decks on hand, and in fact, most everyone has left secret marks of some sort on the guild decks.  
  
There's just one problem with Jacke's thesis: when he inspects the deck after one of Oboro's games, he doesn't find even a single unusual card.  
  
Knowing how others like to cheat is a point of personal pride for Jacke, and an aspect of cultural pride for the entire city. Rumor has it that Captain Carvallain likes to cheat with something he calls a biseauté deck, which makes about as much sense as his calling his spoils  _spices_. Rhoswen of the Sanguine Sirens likes to play Bullshite with one of her saucier Sirens flashing a bit of cleavage on one side, and one of her brawnier Sirens flashing a sharpened axe on the other. Mistress Thubyrgeim of the Arcanist's Guild does not  _cheat_ , not in so many words, but she calls her bets and bids according to statistical probabilities, and wins based on probable outcomes — Jacke has resolved to never play blackjack with the woman because she counts cards.  
  
Jacke knows everyone else's preferred method of cheating, but thus far, no one has managed to successfully deduce his own. The guildmaster's favorite trick is that he has no tricks. He  _can_ employ sleight-of-hand, but he prefers not to; he hides no cards in his sleeves. In truth, he has simply learned to do what others cannot.  
  
What Jacke has never told anyone in the guild is that he has what a Mealvaan's Gate inspector once called an  _eidetic memory_. He can look at things, even briefly — books, maps, decks of cards — and recall them to a degree of detail that others would consider impossible. He has always been this way. On bad days, though he tries to forget, he can sometimes still remember the pattern of scratches on the bars of his cage from more than twenty years ago.  
  
His memory isn't infallible, of course — Jacke forgets things eventually — but the order of cards in a standard deck of fifty-two is something that he can remember for at least a few bells. Provided that he has the chance to look through the cards before they are dealt, Jacke can sit down to a game of Bullshite and know exactly what cards his opponents have in their hands. Even shuffling does not impair his ability to predict the outcome of the deal; Jacke has even learned to anticipate the results of the shuffle, based on the thickness of the dealer's pull and — if he knows them well, as he knows all the members of the Rogues' Guild — their personal habits.  
  
His skills have taken him years to hone. Three years ago, a silver-haired Miqo'te arcanist once calculated his overall accuracy of prediction at  _seventy-six perrrcent_  — but now, Jacke feels certain, that number might be  _ninety_ , or maybe even  _ninety-two_.   
  
Jacke rarely plays Bullshite himself. It would be unfair of him to play. He knows what hands are on the table before the game's players even look at them. He has never told anyone that he has honed this skill; as far as he's concerned, the way his mind works is his own business, and besides, he has other things to do.  
  
Of course, his predictions aren't always correct — he is sadly mortal, he  _can_ still lose track of the cards — so Jacke is gambling every time he calls bullshite on anybody. But then, the nature of gambling is that one must accept risks. And the act of cheating is an attempt to minimize them.  
  
  
  
  
  
One rare, lazy afternoon — when most everyone else is out on assignment, and Jacke is waiting for them to report back — Oboro enters the guildhall, and stops short when he realizes that it is empty save for Jacke. For a moment, the ninja averts his eyes. When he finally speaks, there is a touch of awkward apology to his voice. "Where is everyone else?" Oboro asks.  
  
For a moment, Jacke wonders if his company is truly so disappointing, but he hides his injured pride. "Out," he answers brusquely. "It ain't all fun an' games around here, lad — now and then, we have to string up a few rooks as ain't followin' the code. Why don't ye take off yer beater cases and have a bit of a rest?"  
  
The ninja steps closer, approaching Jacke's table. "Is there aught with which I might assist?" Oboro asks, unruffled.   
  
"I wouldn't say no to havin' a dimber damber like yerself lendin' us a daddle," Jacke says, cautiously friendly, "but don't worry yer head over it none. Underfoot an' V'kebbe can handle a pair of three-gil ruffmans without an extra set o' daggers to make the job easier. If ye're lookin' for somethin' to do, ye could have a look round Hawkers' Alley. Or go back home, if ye'd rather."   
  
Jacke has no idea where Oboro usually stays the night, in truth, but he has gathered that the ninja has taken up residence somewhere in Eastern La Noscea. "The journey back to Costa del Sol would take some time," the Doman answers. "I will stay here, but do not concern yourself overmuch with me. I can entertain myself."  
  
Oboro's idea of self-entertainment, as it turns out, involves sitting down at the table and producing a small box from one of his pockets; the box contains a stack of paper squares, printed with flowers. Jacke watches the ninja carefully, as always he does. At first, Oboro's movements are incomprehensible — he takes one of the colored paper squares and folds it in half, then turns it, and folds it in half again. He folds it into a square, of sorts; then he folds the square into a triangle.  
  
"I purchased these last week," Oboro says, "from a man with the East Aldenard Trading Company. They were rather expensive, I grant you, but I was too delighted to see origami paper for sale in the markets of Eorzea to protest..."  
  
The man's words explain nothing — he does not tell Jacke what he is doing, nor does he explain what origami is — but there is something faintly hypnotic to the way Oboro works. He folds his square of blue paper with singleminded intensity, impossibly careful with his fingers, creasing clean, crisp lines into the paper with his nails. The guild hall is nearly silent without the other rogues bickering in the background; somehow, the quiet sounds of Oboro's crinkling paper makes Jacke's scalp erupt in pleasant tingles.  
  
Jacke does not dare interrupt Oboro as he works; he has the strange feeling that his voice would emerge as a whisper even if he tried. Under the care of the ninja's diligent fingers, Oboro's squares and triangles transform into an elongated diamond. The diamond turns into a rectangle with legs, and then into something vaguely resembling a ninja's shuriken.   
  
Privately, Jacke is impressed. He knows something of the arts — he has seen master craftsmen like Brithael and H'naanza at work — but he has never before seen someone make these shapes from a single square of folded paper.  
  
And then, gradually, Jacke starts to see it. The large flaps at the sides are  _wings_. The strangely long shapes at one end are tailfeathers; the triangles protruding out of the bottom of the paper creature are feet. Then Oboro starts folding smaller and smaller creases at the opposite end of the thing, and Jacke wonders what the man thinks he's doing — and then suddenly his folds take shape, and the rogue understands: Oboro has given it a beak.  
  
At last, now that Oboro has finished his origami, Jacke finds the question in his throat. "Is that a bird?"  
  
"A swallow," Oboro replies. "Tsubame."  
  
It is not in Jacke's nature to be in  _awe_ of things, but the blue paper swallow is unlike anything he has seen before, and he reaches for it tentatively, as though it might come to life and flutter around the room. Oboro does not stop the rogue's fingers from making contact with the swallow, so Jacke takes that as consent to pick it up. He examines the creature from tip to tip. "Can ye do anythin' with this?" the rogue wonders, envisioning an army of paper creatures, animated by Far Eastern mudras.  
  
Oboro looks vaguely as though he has never before considered that origami could have a  _use_. "No," he answers, after a moment's hesitation. "I have simply always found this relaxing."  
  
This swallow finished, Oboro reaches for a second sheet of paper, mottled green this time; apparently, he is set on making another paper swallow to accompany Tsubame, one which he will undoubtedly name Jacke. The guildmaster doesn't mind. He has half a mind to keep Tsubame for himself.  
  
After a pause, Jacke asks, on a whim — "Oboro, ye got a surname?"  
  
Jacke has excuses readied just in case Oboro asks him why he wants to know, but the dark-haired man asks for no such thing. Instead, he answers quickly, as though he has been anticipating the question. "Torioi," Oboro replies over the sound of crinkling paper, so smoothly that Jacke needs a moment to parse the word in his mind.  _Tory-oy_  is what his Eorzean ears supply first — then, once he reminds himself that Hingan seems to be a syllabic language,  _to-ri-o-i_.  
  
Jacke has the odd feeling that ninjas are not technically allowed to divulge their true names, and that Oboro has just broken some ancient shinobi code for him, but he pushes his suspicions aside. "Oboro Torioi, is it," he says, tasting the sounds against his lips, with the air of a scholar conducting an experiment. "What's it mean?"  
  
No doubt Oboro anticipated this question, but he hums thoughtfully all the same, as though he is considering it for the first time. "Allow me to think it over for a moment," he says, setting his half-finished swallow to the side.   
  
But Oboro does not simply sit and  _think_. Slowly and deliberately, he reaches for the paper swallow in Jacke's hand; briefly, their fingers touch. Jacke feels a brush of warmth against his knuckles, feels the electric jolt through his bones — but he does not dare move.  
  
"It means 'birdchaser,'" Oboro says, in a strangely rich and dark voice, and Jacke tells himself that he only imagined that Oboro stroked his fingers before pulling the paper bird away.  
  
  
  
  
  
In the evening, when all Lominsa is silent, Jacke retires to his quarters. He removes his bandana and his shirt at the door; his jewelry feels heavy against his chest when he falls into his bed. He pulls the sheets over himself. Then he kicks them off.   
  
Lying on his mattress, Jacke watches moonlight filter into his room. He watches it spill over his hands, his fingers splayed out on top of his sheets. He tells himself to think of anything else. He tells himself that if he must think of anything,  _anything_ along those lines, he should think of the pleasure houses of Kugane — of the pretty Hingan courtesans that drunken sailors speak of when everyone has had too much to drink.  
  
But still, as he drifts towards slumber, Jacke dreams not of beautiful women in loose kimonos, nor of petite Doman girls disguised as Lominsan milkmaids, but of  _Oboro_. He dreams of Oboro as he  _is —_  slender and steely-eyed, in his laced doublet, and then in nothing at all, all lithe muscle pinning Jacke's wrists to the bed, every ilm of pale porcelain skin just out of reach, whispering foreign words into his ear as his fingers slide lower, ever lower, into the waistband of Jacke's gaskins —   
  
— and when he wakes to find the windows open, Jacke sits up in his bed and stares out towards the sea. He stares the curtains fluttering in the breeze, taking shaky breaths, and he thinks over and over to himself that the window is open,  _the window is open,_  even though he is absolutely certain that it was closed when he fell asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time the guild collectively owes Oboro some 2,000 gil, Jacke decides at last that he has to know how Oboro has been winning all his games. It isn't about the money, of course; debts within the guild are never really paid. Everybody keeps score, but only to tally up the victories of the most successful players.   
  
But Oboro's success bothers Jacke on a fundamental level. It is a mystery that he has to solve.  
  
To that end, he invites the ninja to his quarters, late one evening, when no one else is around.  
  
The man agrees to this easily enough, but he seems surprised when — upon his arrival — Jacke tells him to take a seat at the table, where he has already readied two clean decks for a two-person game. Obediently, Oboro sits as he is bid. His eyes seem to dissect Jacke's bedroom with distressingly analytical precision; he stares down Jacke's sparse wooden furniture, his bare bedsheets, the plain linen curtains swaying slightly in the breeze. "I must say, Jacke," Oboro comments lightly, "this is not what I expected to see when you invited me to your chambers this evening."  
  
"That so?" Jacke asks, faintly disgruntled. He did not think Oboro the sort of man to care for luxuries. "An' what did you expect to see, lad — a pair o' rum doxies seated on a chest o' gil?"  
  
Oboro says nothing.  
  
For the sake of deducing what  _trick_ Oboro has developed, Jacke deals the hands. In the name of fairness, he deals the first fifty-two cards out of the two decks combined — twenty-six cards for each player. Of course, fairness is hardly the objective, and Jacke already knows which cards Oboro is going to have. He has memorized the cards Oboro has in his hand down to the two of spades, the five of hearts. Theoretically — with only two players in the game, and a watchful set of eyes — it should be impossible for Jacke to miss the  _queer Doman secret_  Oboro has been keeping.  
  
It isn't an entirely logical game of Bullshite, but the game itself is not the point.   
  
Once his cards are in his hand, it's a tough decision, trying to determine what his opening gambit should be. "Two fours," Jacke says at last, tossing them on the table. He thinks of the first day — Oboro's first game.  
  
The barest twitch at one corner of Oboro's mouth informs Jacke that the ninja has recognized his move. "One five," he says, quietly pressing one card on top of Jacke's fours.  
  
"One six," the guildmaster replies, in a bid to keep the ranks the same.  
  
On and on they play, but neither of them call bullshite on the other. Jacke cross-references his mental tally of Oboro's cards, each and every turn, but still, the man never, ever cheats. The number of cards Oboro has in his hand corresponds perfectly to Jacke's mental record as well, so the ninja can't be sneaking cards out of his hand.  
  
They are both playing honestly.  
  
Since Oboro won't cheat — and Jacke knows better than to try — the rogue finds himself in a wholly unfamiliar position: he knows exactly what cards are in his opponent's hand, and yet he can do nothing with that information. Oboro has more high cards than he does low, so Jacke tries to push the ranks lower in an effort to force Oboro into calling a bluff — but this backfires. Cleverly — or perhaps straightforwardly — Oboro simply pushes the ranks higher in response, forcing Jacke into a lie instead.  
  
The rogue tries to keep his voice flat and his wrist still. "Ten," he says quietly, laying a two face-down. He immediately regrets the decision — belatedly, Jacke remembers that he called another ten several turns ago, and in the game of Bullshite, it is utterly irrational to put a pair of cards down individually.  
  
But Oboro doesn't call Jacke's bluff.   
  
So he hasn't even been keeping track.  
  
The Doman's lashes brush his cheeks when he looks down at his cards; his throat bobs as he swallows on an empty mouth. Oboro doesn't seem to try any sort of sleight-of-hand. He keeps his arms above the table, and his feet placed firmly on the ground.  
  
Then Oboro smirks.   
  
For a moment, Jacke forgets to breathe.  
  
Oboro's smile is a thing of fleeting beauty, the subtlest quirk of his lips on a moonless night — this  _smirk_ is a different thing entirely. It lingers on Oboro's mouth; it curves the corners of his dark eyes. Oboro has never been so open, so easy to read, and so Jacke assumes, instinctively, that this is all an act. The ninja can't see victory this early. There's no way.  
  
And yet, in six more turns, the match is over — played honestly, there was nothing Jacke could do, not unless he wanted to add the entire pile to his hand, and thereby secure certain loss. He could have tried to sneak some cards out of his hand, but Oboro would have surely caught him. And Oboro could have tried to bluff, but Jacke would have surely caught  _him_.  
  
A whole game of Bullshite, and neither of them doubted the other.  
  
The most infuriatingly boring game of Bullshite Jacke has ever played.  
  
Oboro's last card is the jack of diamonds; since it is his final card, he no longer has to play the game of bluffs. He lays it face-up on the pile. "Jack," he says softly, or maybe  _Jacke_ — it doesn't matter anymore, never mattered to begin with.  
  
The Doman's voice is low and triumphant; it lingers in Jacke's ears. He puts his remaining three cards on the table; he slides them away from himself, locking eyes with the younger man. "What dirty ninja trick..."  
  
But before Jacke can finish that question, the plush pad of Oboro's finger makes contact with his lips. Jacke freezes in place, effectively silenced. The ninja's fingertip feels soft against his mouth. Oboro's smirk widens, then turns taunting. He wears the teasing smile of a man who knows the taste of victory.  
  
Jacke has never seen him like this — this confident, this fierce. This brilliant, like moonlight cutting through the clouds.  
  
"In Doma, we call it luck," Oboro replies, all taunt and temptation, rolling the syllables in his mouth like spun candy. And at last, Jacke understands — this is the fall, the sweet defeat. He is drowning. He has lost.


End file.
